


First Dates and Other Dangers

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Blind Date, Disabled Character, First Dates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the problem with getting set up on dates is that they can turn out so awkwardly. (Part of the problem with being human is that sometimes things defy expectations.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Dates and Other Dangers

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer here.
> 
> For and at the suggestion of [Pasha](http://www.bunbunjolras.tumblr.com), because awkward nerds being adorable is a thing that needs to happen more often.
> 
> Not much more to say about this, but always, feel free to hit me up [on my tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com), I'm pretty chill.

“You should go on a date.”

Combeferre looks up from his book, arching a brow at Courfeyrac across the table, and takes a moment to decide what, exactly, he should say to that. “ _Why_ should I go on a date? And who am I hypothetically going on this date with? Because I am fairly certain there’s no one I’ve expressed an interest in.”

“I suppose it doesn’t _have_ to be a date,” Courfeyrac allows, trailing the end of his scarf along the wood grain of the table thoughtfully as he studies Combeferre in return. “But seriously, you’ve been spending more time at home lately – and if you’re not feeling well, that’s totally okay, I get it, I’m not gonna push. But you haven’t really talked to anyone but me and Enjolras lately, and I feel like you might be kinda lonely? So… I could set you up with a date! Like, even if you aren’t interested in hooking up with someone, conversations!”

He has to admit, Courfeyrac has a point. Still, he looks pointedly down at his wheelchair. “While I appreciate the offer, you know there’s a reason I don’t often date. Especially people I don’t know.”

“It could be a friend date,” Enjolras points out, ever helpful, dropping the pretense of not listening over his own book. He sets it down and looks between them. “Those are nice for learning new things and deciding whether or not you like people.”

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac agrees, nodding. “I mean, a date-date would be great, but if you just wanna do a friend date that would also be great. And if anyone’s an asshole, roll over their toes and storm the fuck out. You really, really don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know that. We just wanna make sure you’re doing okay.”

The thing is, Combeferre isn’t _lonely_. He has the two best friends he could ever have asked for and they complete him platonically. But they’re worried about him and he probably has been spending too much time at home – it gets to him sometimes, the way everything and everywhere seems to be a subtle struggle, and it gets so _hard_ being nice in the face of cheerful prejudice. A date isn’t much, after all. He’s not _opposed_ , per se, or uninterested in the way that aromantic Enjolras is, he just hasn’t felt the need to look for it.

It’s a few hours, at most, minutes at the least. It’s the least he can do, to ease their concern a little, and if it doesn’t work, well, there are other ways to get outside of his own little world. So he sighs and then smiles, real if more fond than excited.

“Alright. I place my fate in your capable hands.”

Courfeyrac beams at him, and even Enjolras’ mouth curves up at the corners.

 

\--

 

“Soooooo, darling.”

Bossuet drapes themself over Grantaire’s shoulders with a casual grace, and when Grantaire sees Musichetta trying and failing to hide a smile to his right and Joly perk up from where he’s been playing with one of the cats, he feels like he’s walked into a trap. Except, of course, for the fact that he was innocently sitting on the couch, futzing with his phone. All the same, he leans back against Bossuet, suspicious. “What do you want?”

Their grin is clear in their voice when they speak, even if Grantaire can’t see it. “A law school friend of mine has this buddy he’s looking to set up on a blind date. Date? Cute boy? Food?”

Grantaire snorts. “Dear god, how much do you hate this guy to inflict me on his friend?”

Musichetta flicks his cheek lightly enough he knows she’s more exasperated than annoyed. “Shush, you. It might do you good to meet someone; it’s been ages.”

“Yes, but, see, I’ve been told I’m _impossible_ ,” Grantaire reminds them, and feels a brief glow of warmth when Bossuet just hugs him a little tighter. “In personality as well as ugliness. And it’s not like I’m moping or anything, thanks.”

“If you’re listening to Irma Boissy over your best and dearest friends, you’re sulking,” Musichetta informs him. “Besides, you’re very charming when you want to be. What’s one date?”

Grantaire looks at Joly for support but he just grins innocently. “Of course you don’t have to go, and we will 100% drop it, but think of the food, R.”

Well, what’s one date? Musichetta always did know him best, which is why she’s always been his best friend, and Joly and Bossuet are just behind. He knows, past the first prick of stinging doubt, that they aren’t tired of him and that they don’t think he needs love to be complete. They actually think he’s a good choice for this poor guy, whoever he is. And, well, food.

“Okay,” he agrees, surprising himself even as he does. “Sure, I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t even bother to grumble when he gets engulfed in their hug.

 

\--

 

Combeferre is beginning to regret agreeing to this anyway. He’s sitting in a quiet corner of the little restaurant a little way from campus, where the waitstaff know the three of them well enough and he knows he won’t run into any snags with his wheelchair or his crutches, but the waiting is always the worst part. He checks his watch, setting his bracelets to jingling faintly. His blind date still has another minute to be on time, which really is plenty of time for him to back out.

But then the door opens, sending a lazy swirl of cooling fall air through the room, and the man who steps in looks uncertain enough that it’s probably him. He catches the attention of one of the waitresses with a sheepish smile and Combeferre takes the chance to observe him.

He’s short, or short enough, and stocky, but he looks solid under his jacket, and he moves with an easiness that suggests he’s very aware of the space around him. And, well – he’s not _bad_ looking, really. Average, maybe, with dark skin and a ruffled mess of black curls and a rather charming smile, but he also has a gritty grey pallor that Combeferre’s used to seeing on people who haven’t been taking care of themselves and heavy bags under his eyes.

The waitress returns his smile and discreetly points him to Combeferre’s table, and he at least pauses to thank her before walking over. His eyebrows arch up when he gets close enough to see the wheelchair, but that’s all, and he smiles tentatively. “Um, hi. You’re Combeferre?”

“I am,” he says, and offers out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…?”

“Grantaire.” His smile grows a little and he shakes Combeferre’s hand firmly, but there’s an agitated nervousness in the way he shifts a little before sitting down at the small table. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I didn’t leave you waiting too long, or anything, the metro was kinda hellish.”

“Not at all,” Combeferre promises, smiling at Grantaire. “I hope it wasn’t too far?”

Grantaire looks a little surprised at that, but smiles back. “Oh, uh, no, not at all.”

The conversation falls flat from there, and Combeferre thinks they’re both relieved when the waitress swings by their table to ask if they’d like anything to drink. Once she’s left again, Grantaire runs his fingers along the edge of the menu and glances up at Combeferre again.

“So,” he says, leaning forward a little. “Tell me about yourself? Like, what do you do?”

“Ah, well, medical school, I’m afraid,” Combeferre replies. “It’s a bit time consuming.”

Grantaire smiles, and it seems a little more real this time. “One of my roommates is going to be a nurse, I can only imagine it’s similarly hectic.”

“To say the least,” Combeferre agrees. And then, belatedly, “And what about you?”

“Oh, um.” Grantaire shrugs a bit. “A little of this and that. A good old fashioned good for nothing, if you will.”

Combeferre isn’t quite sure what to say to that, and Grantaire’s face seems to do _something_ as he looks back at his menu, and the silence is awkward for a minute. At least they have the menus to distract them even though Combeferre already knows what he’s going to have.

He makes one more attempt at conversation that peters out again in no time, and leaves them both looking away from one another, grasping onto their waitress’ return almost desperately. At least, Combeferre thinks, the food will be some amount of consolation for this sinking feeling of awkwardness.

 

\--

 

Grantaire knew this was a terrible idea, and he feels even worse, seeing the way Combeferre shifts awkwardly across from him. He winces a little, because, well, blind dates have to be hard enough without him being awkward as fuck.

“Look,” he says, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I’m really shit at this whole… dating thing. My friends thought it might be good for me, and clearly this is just really awkward. So, um, if you wanna just hang out and eat food, then that is totally okay with me.”

Combeferre, surprisingly, smiles just a little at that. It’s a pity that things haven’t worked out, because he’s actually really attractive – Grantaire would love to draw him, at least. His dark hair falls straight, but the cut of it frames his face well, and the warm lighting of the restaurant does amazing things to the tones of his clear skin, there are hints of tattoos peeking out under his sleeves, and his eyes are sharply intelligent behind his glasses, and there’s something subtle to his expression.

“Food is always a plus,” Combeferre tells him, and his mouth curves up a little more. “And it’s alright, my friends thought this would be good for me, as well. I’m afraid I’m just a little bit awful at dating. It’s not that I’m aromantic, it’s just…”

“… Not a priority?” Grantaire offers. “Yeah, I’m the same way.”

"Exactly." Combeferre looks pleased. "It's frustrating to have people make the assumption that it's a high priority item. My best friends fall on very different ends of the interest spectrum, and I suppose they think I fall somewhere in the middle, but even discounting the fact that the visible marker of my disability tends to, ah, discourage romantic interest, it places a lot of weight on meeting new people."

Grantaire can't help but flash him a quick grin. "Nah, I feel you. My best friends are all tangled up with one another, which is awesome, they're fucking adorable and I love them to pieces, but man, dating is super stressful. I'm kinda over it. And something about me inevitably sends people running for the hills, so, y'know."

For some reason, Combeferre looks surprised at that, but he nods. "The fact that it's assumed as better than friendship just makes everything worse. I feel like it almost might be easier if there wasn't such a pre-negotiated structure of what it means to be dating or in a relationship."

"Totally." Grantaire thinks of his last girlfriend guiltily, because he hadn't realized how much things that weren't important to him were things she expected, and it doesn't matter that they're still friends, he still feels so _awful_ about it sometimes. He makes a bit of a face. "And then, god, you just meet those people who, like, met in high school and are getting married and are like _sickeningly_ perfect for one another, and it's just... ugh, it doesn't matter how you feel, you feel like shit because you don't have that."

Combeferre huffs softly. "I can't say I know the type, but yes. And heaven forbid you don't fit a conventional model of attractiveness."

"Tell me about it," Grantaire says bitterly, waving at his face with a dry expression. They keep talking, and it feels kind of weird to be talking to this guy he was supposed to be on a date with about how shitty dating is, but Combeferre just makes it easy. It's only when the waitress swings by that they break off, and he belatedly realizes that he's only halfway through his glass of wine. He chooses to take that as a good sign, or something.

 

\--

 

In between bites of food, Combeferre finds himself talking to Grantaire about well, everything. It starts with tattooing, when his sleeve rides up and Grantaire perks at the sight of the tattoos that edge down his forearm, and it turns out that they both have more than a few.

And then he's talking about moths, because he's been keeping track of the ones that are most common to the area, and Grantaire has some interesting thoughts about camouflage, and somehow this ends up with them talking about octopuses and their color changing mechanisms.

He learns, through the course of their conversation, that Grantaire doesn't so much do nothing as teach self-defense classes and kick boxing and dance. As he talks about the history of savate, he starts to light up, articulating with his hands as he makes his points even though he's leaned in a little closer to keep talking at a reasonable volume. His eyes light up and crinkle at the corners when he laughs at one of Combeferre's puns, and he's lovely like this, freer and more open.

It's strange, because Combeferre hasn't had a discussion this easy with anyone since he first met Enjolras and Courfeyrac. But it's nothing at all to smile back and push his plate back to lean in closer.

"It's fascinating, though," he tells Grantaire. "There's this book - it's in English, but - it's looking at the way that language has these metaphorical underpinnings. I'm sure I miss nuances because, well, I don't actually speak English well, but it's fascinating to consider the ways in which we structure this... entire analogy without even thinking about it."

"No, totally," Grantaire agrees, and he genuinely looks interested in the idea. "I know it's a different thing, but it makes me think of art, you know? And how we just... we think of certain colors as meaning certain things, and that's encoded right into them, but someone else from a different place might have all of these different associations, and so, like, how do we decide what emotions they bring up. I mean, shit, like, I was the world's worst art student, but..."

Combeferre tilts his head, fascinated. "You're an artist as well? Do you have a preferred medium, or?"

Grantaire laughs and looks away, rubbing the back of his head. "Oh, well, I guess I like oils okay, and just pencil. Charcoal is good. I dunno, I don't have a consistent style or anything, just whatever caught my eye. Like, uh, the tattoos on my feet, I was really interested in the decorative scrollwork patterns, so I drew on that? They're thistles so it looks weird, but."

He wants to see all of them, suddenly, to take in the details and ask about them and let Grantaire ask about his in return. Instead Combeferre just smiles. “That’s _fantastic_.”

 

\--

 

They’ve moved on to dessert and there’s only so much Grantaire can say about whipping up a delicate mousse. But Combeferre seems to have something related to _everything_ because he starts to talk about the mechanics of cooling methods in cooking while Grantaire thoughtfully takes a bite.

It’s not just that Combeferre is talking, but all of his reservation has fallen away and he’s passionate about so _many_ things. The cool distance has completely vanished, and he might not talk with his hands as much as Grantaire does, but he’s clearly interested and his eyes are so bright and so calculating, like he’s thinking so many things at once, and it’s amazing.

And shit, Grantaire is _so bad_ at being a good conversational partner, but there’s an ice pun that he can’t help but make and he’s about to apologize when Combeferre _laughs_ and miracle of miracles, makes another that plays off of it.

“I’m no good at languages,” Combeferre says ruefully, “but I love puns, and Enjolras and Courfeyrac both are amazing at them. Especially Enjolras – they’re _awful_ but he’s always so pleased with them.”

It’s so clear that he loves these friends of his so much, and Grantaire more than understands the feeling, but it’s amazing to see the way that something in him just lights up when he talks about them, soft and gentle like daybreak. Because he’s not just _smart_ (blisteringly intelligent, with the way he knows so much about so many things and connects them to one another), he’s _nice_.

Grantaire has given up on believing in good people, but Combeferre genuinely seems to be _kind_. He loves his friends and speaks passionately about the rights of marginalized people and the need for education reform and a million other things that seem like distant daydreams to Grantaire. He wants to be a patient advocate, for fuck’s sake, and he’s so _nice_ about the fact that Grantaire keeps rambling about things and going off on weird comparisons and losing his train of thought, just picking it up and moving the conversation on.

They move from dessert to coffee, and Grantaire leans forward again as Combeferre takes a slow, savoring sip of his. “So, no, okay, you make great points about why it would be terrible to actually go to Hogwarts, but I’m really curious, what House do you think you’d be in?”

“Ravenclaw,” Combeferre says promptly, with the air of someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about it, and smiles over the edge of his cup. “I think I believe too strongly that knowledge is the way forward to go anywhere else. What about you?”

“I can never decide,” Grantaire admits, rubbing the back of his head and ruffling the unruly curls there. “I’d probably end up in Slytherin, just because I’m somehow really good at getting out of responsibilities and shit? I’d say Hufflepuff, but, I mean, I am nowhere near hardworking or loyal enough, it feels like it’d be insulting to say that I am.”

Combeferre hums and his head tilts so slightly to the side.

“I’ve never heard anyone put it that way,” he says thoughtfully, and his eyes are soft. “Thinking about the traits associated with it rather than the “duffers” bits, when they’re not sure where to go. It’s interesting.”

“Yeah, well.” He says it like it’s a good thing when Grantaire has just spent _way_ too much of his life thinking about this shit, but he still blushes as he looks away.

 

\--

 

By the time Combeferre has gotten Grantaire to start telling him about the long-term implications of readings of Classical texts and the glorification of Classical cultures in general, it's starting to get late. The waitress seems doesn't seem to mind that they're cutting it close to the end of the night, but Combeferre manages to snag the bill before Grantaire can so much as voice a protest and includes a little extra for her patience.

"I asked, sort of, so it's my treat," Combeferre tells him as they shrug into their coats. "If it really makes you feel better, I'll guilt Courfeyrac into paying for part."

"You wouldn't do that," Grantaire scoffs, absently snagging the door and letting Combeferre pass through first. "You're far too nice. Guess this means I'll have to try to catch you for lunch sometime and return the favor."

"I suppose so," Combeferre agrees, and tries not to let show the way his heart jumps at that. They halt outside the restaurant for a minute so that Grantaire can check the time, and he swears. "Hm?"

Grantaire looks sheepish, glancing up from the light of his phone screen. "Um. I maybe have ten missed calls and thirteen texts making sure you haven't secretly murdered me or anything?

That makes Combeferre snort, but it makes him pull out his own phone and he pales a little, because there are texts and a number of missed calls from Enjolras and Courfeyrac that range from tentatively hopeful to slightly frantic. "... I may have those as well."

"Oh, well," Grantaire says, and shrugs. "We can just tell them we got distracted by mutual murdering and it's all settled now."

"That's horrible." Combeferre laughs all the same, and apologetically texts them that he'll be home soon enough and that he's sorry to have worried them, and then he tucks his phone away. "Can I interest you in a walk? To the métro station, at least?"

"I'd like that." Grantaire's smile turns just a touch shy in the dim lights, and they head out at an easy pace.

Combeferre is used to being outpaced or having people walk overly slowly beside him, but Grantaire just strolls along beside him like it's no matter at all, and though he has to look down to meet Combeferre's eyes, he doesn't seem to be looking down on him at all. It's nice. It's unexpected, and it's nice, and he feels lighter.

But it's a clear enough night to see some of the stars, and Grantaire points out a few major clusters, and Combeferre hums. "I have an app that tracks satellite positions - I think one's supposed to be visible tonight. Do you mind if we stop so I can check?"

"That sounds amazing," Grantaire says, and sounds like he believes it. He glances around, pausing. "By that bench over there?"

"Perfect." Combeferre follows him over, absently flipping the brakes on before reaching for his phone. Sitting, Grantaire is shorter than he is, legs comfortably stretched out in front of him as he watches Combeferre pull up his app.

There is a satellite out, but it won't be visible for hours, so they just end up sitting there and talking again, more about constellations and myths and stories they remember from childhood until the conversation falls into an easy lull, and there are so many things that he wants.

"I know we agreed not to have this be a date thing. But we're getting along and you're really nice, and smart, and you're really attractive," Grantaire blurts out, his face flushing, and Combeferre instinctively braces for the "... even in the wheelchair" or the invasive questions about how and if he can have sex, but they don't come. Instead, Grantaire peeks over at him, smile charming and not quite daring to hope. "And if you wanted to do this, like a thing - and it's so okay if you don't - but..."

"I'd like that," Combeferre says, and smiles as he offers out a hand, palm up.

 

\--

 

Grantaire almost hesitates before he takes it, half certain that there's some sort of trick to it, but Combeferre seems too kind for that.

The night's cold, and they're actually both wearing fingerless gloves, but Combeferre's hand is warm and fits perfectly against Grantaire's. Their hands slide together seamlessly, and it's as easy as breathing, so he lets them stay like that, and looks down to hide how hard he's smiling.

They keep holding hands as they start talking again, and Grantaire wants to know everything about him, which is maybe a little much for a first date that also wasn't but maybe kind of is. But he wants to know where the calluses on his fingers are from, and what else earns those little quirks of his mouth, what it means when he lights up that way, more about those suggestions of tattoos. It's kind of ridiculous, but it's kind of awesome, too.

It's cold out, but it hardly seems to touch him, because there are lights all bound up in the trees and the streetlamp is casting its light down on them, shadows and highlights in a stark chiaroscuro. They're talking of sharks and stars, and it feels so easy and so natural to talk like this.

Grantaire feels like his life is made up of awkward pauses that he tries to rush to fill with words, but the conversation flows so smoothly with Combeferre, the same and not the same as it does with Musichetta and Joly and Bossuet, and maybe they're both shit at conversational pauses but this is awesome.

He's turned without realizing it, his knee nearly bumping Combeferre's, and they're angled toward one another and leaning in, so close that they don't have to raise their voices at all.

"Can I kiss you?" he blurts out, and then starts to jerk back, because that was too much and too soon and he might well have been reading that wrong, and shit, he's not sure what to say to fix it, if he should laugh it off, or -

Combeferre smiles like he's pleasantly surprised, and there's something not quite shy to it, the way his cheeks tinge red but his eyes stay so steady on Grantaire's face as he squeezes his hand gently. "Oh, thank god, I wasn't the only one thinking that."

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a yes," Combeferre agrees, and twists so he can lean in. His fingers are cool on the curve of Grantaire's cheek, but not shockingly so, and he kisses him like he's searching him out. It's undemanding, and easy, and exploratory, and Grantaire doesn't give in, doesn't take over, just responds. It feels longer than it could possibly be before they break apart.

He laughs, breathless and happy, and slides their fingers together. "Holy shit, is there anything you can't do?"

"I get horrifically distracted by Wikipedia articles and am not allowed to research without supervision anymore," Combeferre tells him gravely, smiling back. "Kissing, apparently, I can handle. As can you."

"As can I," Grantaire agrees, and he could lean in for another, but he's just as content not to, sitting and holding hands and this is so comfortable. The quiet is companionable, and he has a million facts to share, but he spares a moment wish he could paint Combeferre like this, with shadows and face flushed a little in the night chill.

"... It's late," Combeferre murmurs, at last. "Honestly, I thought I'd be home hours ago."

Grantaire snorts. "Thought we'd fall apart in ten minutes, honestly. But I'm glad."

"Me too," Combeferre says, and they stay in that honesty for a moment before Combeferre lets go reluctantly, insisting on accompanying Grantaire to the métro station, which is actually kind of sweet.

He starts rambling as they make their way, and he's just wrapping up an anecdote when the station comes into view, and then he's just not sure what to do in the wake of Combeferre's soft laughter, shifting from foot to foot. "So, um, if this was a thing...?"

"Would you like to get breakfast tomorrow?" Combeferre asks, smiling up at him. "No pressure, of course, but I know a little café near the bookshop you mentioned."

Grantaire tries not to perk up too much, ruffling the curls he'd painstakingly attempted to tame earlier, and attempts to give Combeferre a smile that's not too sincere but is pretty sure he fails. "Oh, I think I know which one you’re talking about; it’s a good one. That would be... I'd like that."

"Tomorrow, then." And the thing is, when Combeferre smiles back, he looks sincere too, and Grantaire can almost believe this is his life.

"Tomorrow. And... thanks. This was nice." Before he can lose his nerve or talk himself out of it, because it's a ridiculously silly gesture, he bends and kisses Combeferre's cheek. He beats a hasty retreat, throwing a wave over his shoulder because he's too much of a coward to see his reaction, but he dares a peek back as he heads inside, and has to hide another grin when Combeferre, face faintly flushed and expression soft, raises a hand in farewell.

Joly, Bossuet, and Muischetta are going to give him hell in teasing, but Grantaire doesn’t think he’ll stop smiling all the way home.

 

\--


End file.
